


Follies

by pocketmouse



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so shall you hear<br/>Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts;<br/>Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;<br/>Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angevin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/gifts).



> I seem to have gotten musicals in your classics. And then politics in your musicals. Whoops.
> 
> Thanks to my three betas, especially O!

In April, Geoffrey stops reading the newspaper. This is in part a money-saving venture (he never pays for the newspaper, it's stolen from the café, but maybe this way he'll stop buying so many lattés) and in part a sanity-saving venture (as much as that can be said for anything he does these days). If he really wants to read the news (which he doesn't, not really, it always leads to Bad Things and sometimes Court Appearances) he can always try the internet.

It's not that he wants to remain ignorant of the world. It's just this way he doesn't have to think about the fact that he can't change it.

* * *

Ellen stares at him with that combination of shock, dismay, and incredulousness that she's so good at. She's known him for over a decade; she's had plenty of time to practice.

"You're going to _what?!_" Her hands were crossed over her chest in denial. "Geoffrey, you can't do that."

He grins at her patiently. He has a feeling he's going to have to get out that hookah pipe they'd bought in university, if only to goad her further. "Sure I can. I'm the artistic director, remember?" He raises his eyebrows, because he still finds that more insane than he's ever been.

Lately.

"No, Geoffrey. It doesn't mean you can pull the entire cast of _Hamlet_ for two weeks of day rehearsals to do a weekend's worth of performances of _Hair_. I mean, _Hair!_"

She looks like she's really going to work up a full head of steam on this if he doesn't stop her. "Actually, Ellen, it does. We'll cut out 'Don't Put It Down,' probably, considering, and really, it's going to be more of a revue, not the whole thing. But we're doing this."

"I can't believe that got past the board. How'd you get them to approve something like this?"

"Actually, I haven't asked them yet." He grins. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Either his determination to do this has sunk in, or he's sufficiently baffled Ellen, because she is silent. Fortunately, so is Oliver.

Geoffrey leaves his office, humming 'Manchester, England.'

* * *

They're not authorized to pull Jack, his contract is pretty strict, but he shows up on occasion for the tail end of rehearsal, mainly to watch Kate. A lot of the younger cast members have thrown themselves into the project -- Charlie and Taylor nearly got into a catfight over who would sing 'Sodomy' -- and they have a whole raft of ideas for staging. Not all of them having to do with pot.

Geoffrey moves to sit next to Jack while the cast lopes through another freeform run of the massacre scene, its current incarnation something like the bastard love child of a mosh pit and a lucha libre fight. "This is more your style, isn't it?" he murmurs, hand on his chin.

Jack looks at him and quirks a grin. The kid is a charmer, and if he has any luck and a good agent, he'll make himself a real career, beyond just the action flicks. "In some ways, yeah. The content's more what I'm used to. But it's a bit, uh, free-form for this place, isn't it?"

Geoffrey grins back at him. "Most of the texts of Shakespeare's plays that we use today come from the actors' cribbed notes, taken down long after performance, varying from writing to writing. We abridge texts all the time, either to drive the story or to reshape the narrative if we're focusing on a particular aspect. I'd have to say there's some room for 'free-form' in Shakespeare. Even with what he's given us -- Shakespeare's responsible for hundreds of words that we now think of as everyday." Kate is sitting on Walter's shoulders, and Moira's doing some painful-looking gymnastic routine. Or possibly yoga. Geoffrey was never bendy enough to try either, let alone tell the difference.

"And really, Shakespeare appealed as much to the unwashed masses as the highbrow," he nudges Jack a little. "He was the popular entertainment of the day." Geoffrey pauses. "That or bear-baiting. But I don't think the board would let us bring that in." A conveniently-timed laugh ripples up from the cast, concentrating on something else. "Besides, it's often the fool who sees most clearly what the wise are doing."

Jack looks at Geoffrey carefully. "This is a practise as full of labour as a wise man's art. For folly that he wisely shows is fit; but wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit."

He keeps forgetting how sharp the kid is. "I don't think I'm quite wise enough to play the fool myself," he says, tapping his temple. "Let's just hope I haven't stepped directly into that second part."

* * *

"I'm not sure if you've gone off your meds, or if you've been taking a couple extra pills on the side." Darren is standing in the doorway to his office, bedecked and bespangled, staring at him over the rims of his thick-rimmed sunglasses. Geoffrey is pretty sure those are women's jeans.

"Darren," Geoffrey says, leaning back in his chair and smiling with too many teeth. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going back to the Weimar."

"Yes, well, when you're held overnight for charges involving _swordplay_, it turns out the German embassy in Ottawa likes to have a second look at your work visa." He shrugs a little, as if to say 'these things happen,' which they do, and Geoffrey feels no guilt over it. Actually, he suspects Darren has been hanging around to see if he'd fail.

"What's this I hear about you putting on a production of _Hair_? Geoffrey, I'm impressed. I thought there would be wailing and gnashing of teeth before the classical soul of this place would let its name be befouled with a Broadway Hit." The mock surprise in Darren's voice isn't enough to cover up the genuine curiosity.

"It's not a full production, just a medley presentation for a fundraising event." After a moment's hesitation, he slides the flier draft across his desk at Darren. He knows Darren will recognize the date. Not that he thinks Darren believes in rallies any more.

"How'd you find out, anyway?" he asks, breaking the moment. "Did someone in the office actually deign to speak to you, or are you stalking the young actors' MySpace pages again?" The irritated look on Darren's face means he's probably right.

"Actually, Richard mentioned it to me," Darren says, though he's only half paying attention to what he's saying. The rest, Geoffrey's sure, is taking in the flier, and the phrases like 'Cross-Canada Day of Action' and 'United Nations.' It's actually pretty restrained, it had to be in order to tiptoe it past the board of directors and the finance committee. "He actually asked me if this was my idea." He looks up, scrutinizing Geoffrey closely.

Geoffrey shrugs. "Shame you had to tell him no."

"You know, I suppose it is just like you after all. High ideals, thinking you can change the world with song and dance. You think you're going to prick their consciences?" Darren tosses the flier back down on the desk. "People don't go to rallies to have their minds changed. They go to tell everyone else they're wrong and to get tear-gassed."

"I have to do this," he says. It's not something he can explain to Darren. Once upon a time the other man might have understood, but at some point Darren had traded his soul for sensationalism and cheap outrage, when the real outrage was the kind that had soldiers dying from friendly fire in a war for money. "Seven years ago, I would have -- I don't know, stormed down to the Senate and tried to shout them down myself. Now, I'm shouting at people a little closer, paying more attention to who's listening. Because they will." He clears his throat. Darren's just going to brush this off. But it's nice to remind himself of what he's doing.

"Just try not to firebomb anyone, Geoffrey." He can see by the arrogant set of Darren's eyes that he's deliberately choosing not to listen. "The RCMP doesn't take kindly to that sort of action."

* * *

The stage is bare, but at the edge of it, Geoffrey can see a handful of flowers, either left over from a bouquet at the matinee performance (unlikely), or brought in by one of the Young Company at rehearsal. They're on a ten, chattering at the back of the house about something, cellphones dimly illuminating their faces where the houselights don't reach them. Geoffrey wonders if they understand what he's trying to do here, or if they simply like the chance to work on something a little less heavy than _The Tragical Historie of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark_.

"It is a good thing you are doing, Geoffrey." Nahum's presence is unexpected and Geoffrey starts, nearly falling off the stage. He's still expecting Oliver to pop up and berate him, but then Oliver never had much interest in political statements. He eases himself upright, the ceiling spinning around until Nahum's face comes into view.

"And what _am _I doing?" Taking advantage of the board's upheaval to pursue a personal whim? Somehow, chaining himself to the doors of the Swan didn't have the same effect as a warehouse, even if more people might notice. The sponsors wouldn't like it one bit. God, he worked in a theatre with _sponsors_.

Nahum doesn't answer his question directly. "Do you know why I chose to come to this country, and not to America?"

He rubs his eye tiredly. "Mmmn... Didn't you have an uncle or something?"

"No, my sister has children. I am hoping to maintain my residency long enough to be able to sponsor them. I chose Canada because I felt it gave its citizens the freedoms that America only pays lip service to. And I thought its government was better at representing its people."

He's not entirely sure what Nahum's point is here. "Yeah, well, I don't know about that."

Nahum smiles at him. "It is the duty of the government to fairly represent its people. And it is the people's duty in turn to respond when they feel that the government is not fulfilling those duties. You don't have to pick up a weapon to do that."

A slow smile curls across Geoffrey's face. "I only hope to make half the impact that I should," he says. New Burbage is still steeped in the sloth of the last seven years. But maybe he can make this change happen. Maybe this is another way he can help return this place to how it used to be -- words that mean something.

"If they are still making plays like this, then it stands to reason there are still people who will listen to it." And people who will write it, and produce it, and perform it for the world that still needs it. He nods.

* * *

The cast knows what they're doing. It's a weekend performance for a benefit, not even a byline or a real paycheck. Every one of these actors is here because they want to be. Like he wants to be. That fills him with confidence more than anything else could.

Geoffrey's been looking over his shoulder this whole time -- for mistakes, for censure, for _Oliver_. But maybe there's no reason to. This is something he has wanted to do for over half a year now, and this is what theatre is for. The wearying process of directing _Hamlet_ had made him think that everyone in New Burbage had forgotten that fact. But maybe not.

Everyone has thrown themselves into this project -- not for him, but out of their own interest. No one is late; in fact the opposite is usually true. They don't make it down to the bar until an hour before _Hamlet_ show call most nights, because they want to talk about the play: they have ideas, questions.

"Yes, this play is very American," he says. New York, and draft-dodging are just the tip of the iceberg there. "But that's like saying Synge is very Irish or Bailey is very African. Yes, but they're also very human. Claude's struggle isn't just whether to join the army now that he's been drafted. Everything is changing: the world is at war, culture and opinion is shifting, and what he'll decide will affect not only him, but everyone in his tribe. That's a lot to put on the shoulders of a teenage kid, when all he wants to do is ...live." It's a lot to put on anyone.

He shakes it off. "No one in this play is carefree. They're activists and protestors and they're hugely aware of everything that's going on around them, the years of history behind every action of today. Sometimes they choose to ignore it, but you can't say they aren't aware of it, war is the knife hanging heavy over everyone's head. It's not just oncoming, a potential, it's a fact. Inescapable." His heart is hammering inside his chest. "There's sex and love and drugs, but it's all done in the face of war -- peace as an act of war, combat on the home front." Geoffrey smiles and he's aware it might be a little manic. He can see that manic light reflected back in their eyes.

He believes in this. He believes in _them._

* * *

Ellen surprises him by showing up to the performance. The house is closing in two minutes, the crowd has already trickled in and settled to their seats. She's still got her sunglasses on at 8 PM, obviously hoping not to be noticed, but Geoffrey's been standing here shaking hands and making nice for forty minutes now, he's not going to miss her.

"Ellen," he grins because he can. And because his face might be stuck that way. "I'm surprised you came. I didn't think this was your sort of thing."

She gives him a tight smile. "I'm not here for the music. If this can count as music." She rolls her eyes. "You know why I'm here."

He does. He kisses her forehead and she whacks him in the shoulder, pushing away and heading into the theatre just before the doors close.

Maybe he works in a theatre with sponsors now, people to appease and agendas not his own, but the toilets work and the fire extinguishers are up to code. Shakespeare wrote for the crown but performed for the common man. With a little luck, maybe he can touch a fraction of that grace.


End file.
